


Just One Minute

by willowhisperer



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Creepy The Handler (Umbrella Academy), Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Extended Scene, Hurt No Comfort, Made myself sad with this one folks, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Number Five | The Boy Whump, Number Five | The Boy-centric, Other, Sexual Assault, but she is definitely creepy and touchy and invades his personal space + autonomy, just to clarify. this does not get explicitly sexual, so im keeping that tag just to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26351038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowhisperer/pseuds/willowhisperer
Summary: Five holds up his end of the deal, soaked in blood. The Handler decides to toy with him a little while longer.Maybe it's revenge, maybe she's riding the high of her shiny new position as head of the Commission.Really, she just wants to win, once and for all.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy & The Handler (Umbrella Academy)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 272





	Just One Minute

**Author's Note:**

> first of all, this isn’t meant to be 'hot', so please don’t comment anything like that. mind the tags, and stay safe.
> 
> whenever i think about these two’s creepy dynamic for too long i get upset, so i needed some way to vent these thoughts without writing 1000 meta posts :(
> 
> also: extra content warning for discussion of vomit. if i missed anything please let me know! i would hate to unintentionally hurt someone

“What I did today, I did for my family.” Five rasps, hands shoved in his pockets. He stares up at the woman in front of him with tired, piercing eyes. His ears are ringing. “I did it to save the world.”

“Oh please, spare me your little assassin-with-a-heart-of-gold routine, will you?” The Handler speaks with honeyed confidence, and she boops his nose like he’s a child.

Five scoffs and looks away, staring off at nothing in particular. He lets her have her aggravating quips. Soon this will all be a distant memory, and he’ll never have to see her miserable face again. In his peripheral vision, he watches her bend down to pick up the briefcase at her side. She hums, then, and Five glances back to see her staring at him, one hand resting on her cheek in thought. She mocks the very concept of innocence. 

A sudden jolt of exasperation rises from within, and Five bristles.

“Are we _done_ here?” He scathes through gritted teeth. “I held up my end of the bargain.”

She tilts her head then, and Five can hear the telltale clack of heels as she takes a step closer. She’s just a short few inches away now. Close enough that he can smell that nauseating lavender perfume rolling off her in waves. He does not step back. “Hm, there’s just _one_ more thing, actually.” She muses, sickly sweet.

Five blinks rapidly, raising his eyebrows and huffing out a short, disbelieving laugh. “ _Excuse_ me?” He bares his teeth in a wide, forced grin. “Now correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe our deal involved anything more than the assassination of the Board.”

“Oh Five, always _so_ uptight.” She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “You weren’t such a stickler for the rules when you blew up a substantial portion of Commission headquarters, slaughtered several highly trained personnel and made little old me take a _grenade_ to the face, now were you?” 

Five flounders for a few moments, blinking rapidly.

“Oh, don’t worry! I just need one minute of your time is all, and then you can be on your merry way.” She reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind Five’s ear, rolling her eyes. “You can even _count_ if you must.”

“One minute?” Five huffs, quietly disgusted that he was even considering what she had to say. “What could I _possibly_ do for you in one minute?”

The Handler’s smile widens, almost imperceptibly. “...Nothing, actually! Absolutely nothing.” She replies. “Isn’t that grand? _You_ don’t have to lift a finger.” She brings a hand up, cupping Five’s blood-splattered cheek. “....Just relax, and be my doll for sixty seconds, and you and your family will be off scot-free.” She says it so casually, so confidently that Five almost feels stupid for not understanding.

Confusion is plastered on his face. “...I don’t get it.”

She tilts her head at that, raising an eyebrow expectantly. “Oh Five… I think you’re a little smarter than that.” Her thumb runs along his cheek, once. 

It clicks.

His eyes widen then, and all at once, every nerve in his body is shouting a decisive, unanimous _no._

But Five is a pragmatist at heart, especially when the safety of his family is involved. So despite himself, he hesitates. One minute, eh? One minute of… whatever she was going to do. The silence stretches on while Five is lost in his own thoughts, until the Handler’s silky voice snaps him to attention.

“Of course, if such an _inconvenience_ is too much for you, I could always take the briefcase myself and be on my way.” She withdraws her hand from his face and takes a step back, smiling. “I’m sure it’ll have its use back at Headquarters.”

“Oh yeah?” Five grits his teeth, curling his hands into fists in his pockets. “And what’s stopping me from slitting your throat right now, or ripping it straight outta your boney hands?”

“Hmm… you _might_ be able to grab it in time.” She taps a finger on her chin with her free hand, mocking deep thought. “But would you _risk it,_ after everything you’ve done to get this far? That’s the real question, isn’t it.” The concern in her voice is fake, patronizing. “It only takes one click of a latch, after all.” She shrugs, smiling sharply.

Five’s eyes flicker to the ground, then, deep in thought. His weary limbs are starting to ache, now that the adrenaline from his assignment is wearing off. 

He’s been working towards this moment for over 45 years of his life. That’s 16,425 days. In just one more minute, he could be on his way to saving the world, and his siblings. No matter how much he hates it, it’s basic math. One minute of an uncomfortable encounter is not worth risking the survival of the world. He’s a trained assassin, a 58 year old man. He knows he can take care of himself.

The Handler looks down at her watch.

If it really comes down to it, if she tried anything funny, he could always just blink away. He’s certain he has enough energy for at least one or two more jumps.

Above all, he’s just… tired. Tired of killing people to get what he wants. He meant it when he said it. He’d rather not have to contradict that statement so soon.

Five takes a single deep breath, sighing heavily. He rubs the bridge of his nose with one hand, massaging away a tiny headache. Lord. After all this is over, he’s probably going to sleep for 14 hours straight.

“...Fine.” He eventually spits out, exhausted. “One minute. I don’t care. Do whatever you want.”

“Great!” She practically purrs.

Really, this is the most practical response. After the minute is up, he’ll never have to see her again anyway. It’s just tacking one more uncomfortable experience onto this whirlwind of a week. Two weeks, really. Practically a drop in the bucket compared to everything else he’s gone through to save the damn world. 

So, when the Handler steps around Five like a vulture circling roadkill, he stays dutifully still. She stops and reaches out to rest a hand on his far shoulder. Her touch is light, gentle, and she pauses before softly tugging it at. Five takes the hint, turning in place to face her. He attempts to project as much apatheticness into his expression as possible, staring up at her with unimpressed eyes. “Back up.” She says, low and kind, as if talking to a clueless child. He clenches his jaw through closed lips.

She takes a step forward, and the pointed toe of her bright red heel bumps against Five’s own shoe. He obeys, stepping backwards, away from her. They move as one as she slowly guides him back, one, two, three feet. Almost as if locked in a dance.

Eventually he feels his back hit rough, old bricks, and the Handler follows, stopping only a short few inches away. She and her tacky purple overcoat are all he’s able to look at besides the gross, faded walls of the empty alley surrounding them, or the smelly dumpster sitting to his left. As much as he hates to admit it, the public nature of this setting is making his stomach twist up into tiny little knots. He wishes they were anywhere else, somewhere no one could see them, even accidentally. Christ, he hopes Elliot isn’t watching them from his window, taking pictures. Five’s not sure he has the energy to threaten that idiot today.

“Classy.” Five deadpans, breaking the silence. His mouth is dry and his heart is racing.

The Handler simply smiles and huffs out a laugh. “Aww, I do love that adorable poker face of yours.” Her voice is sweet, nauseating, like honey poured directly down a throat.

Even though she’s never gone quite this far before, Five’s played this song and dance with her enough to know he shouldn’t give her any material to work with. The slightest suggestion of weakness, the tiniest hint that he’s bothered by her advances- a grimace, a flinch, a complaint. It all just becomes fuel for her, in this awful game of acting they play. There was no way in hell he was going to let her win.

See, Five is a trained assassin. One of the _best_ assassins in the time-space continuum, if he might be so bold. He could snap her neck, break her jaw, fracture her wrists like twigs at any moment. But that would be letting her win. That would be suggesting the small chance she could escape with the briefcase wasn’t worth a few more seconds of this uncomfortable game. He’s letting her do this because it’s the only logical course of action, really. He’s letting her do this because he has tact, and patience, unlike most of his siblings.

The first thing she does is take one dainty hand and run it up the edges of his blazer, painfully slowly. She stops when she reaches his blood-spattered tie, taking a moment to gently adjust it. It reminds him of long faded memories, when Mom would spend hours teaching him how to tie it. She would double-check his work to make sure it was perfect for Dad, and then she would smile. He thinks the Handler’s smile is more plastic than Mom’s ever was, which is certainly saying something. 

Her fingers shift to his shoulder, and soon she begins running her hand up and down his left arm. It’s a repetitive motion, thankfully dulled by layers of clothing. Five wishes he were left confused or amused by the seemingly bizarre action, but it only serves to make bile rise up in the back of his throat. He’s familiar with the gesture, though not quite in this way. He used to stroke Delores’ arm whenever he seeked comfort, whenever he needed reassurance that he wasn’t alone. The act was calming, grounding, and Delores always said she liked it too. 

Five looks up into the Handler’s cold, sharp eyes. She’s so close he can see the way makeup is caked on her face to cover up her wrinkles and scars. Can see the way the years have slowly worn her down. He wonders if this motion is soothing for her, deep down. It feels more like a mockery. 

She drags her hand down his arm one last time, coming to rest at his wrist. She loosely grabs at it and gently tugs it towards the sky. He lets her guide his hand up, up, up into the air, above his head.

“Keep it there.” She orders, quiet. Five obeys, holding his arm far above his head. Her fingers ghost all the way across his blazer to his other wrist, and she repeats the motion, guiding his arm above his head until the back of his right hand meets the palm of his left. The pose she leaves him in is profoundly uncomfortable, far too intimate. He's hyperaware of the way his blazer rides up his torso. His undershirt is still safely tucked into his pants, thank God. He blinks, and a bead of sweat drips down his forehead.

She drags her hand down his right arm this time, and Five takes a silent, deep breath, willing his body to calm down. His heart is practically jumping into his throat, being in such a vulnerable position. He hates having his torso exposed, all those delicate organs within an easy stabbing distance. He so badly wants to shove his hands back into his pockets, or cross his arms over his chest. But it’s fine. He’s _fine_ , because proximity is no problem at all. Because his entire powerset is based around teleportation. Because he’s nearly _sixty years old_ and he has this under control.

He hears the Handler click her tongue in disappointment, and his eyes snap up to meet hers in an instant. “Hey, I said _relax."_ She whines. “Where’s my doll, hm?”

Five blinks in confusion, before realizing that the hands above his head are currently balled into tight fists. Moreover, he can feel the subtle thrum of his own powers scratching its way to the surface, radiating out through his hands in tiny bursts. He blanches, trying to keep up his stony expression as she watches on in amusement. Shame rolls over him like an _awful_ , gentle wave, and he feels his throat starting to close up pathetically. Shit. He closes his eyes for a moment, forcefully relaxing his fingers and loosening his shoulders. He presses his hands back against the scratchy brick so it’s harder to see them shake. He didn't think this would be quite so... humiliating? Mortifying? He settles on overwhelming.

When he opens his eyes again, the Handler is smiling, seemingly pleased. “There we are.” She chirps, short and sweet.

She brings her hand up to his face, then, and Five forces himself not to flinch. Her fingers drift to the top of his head, repetitively carding them through his damp hair. Her fingers get caught in a clump of dried blood as she drags them back, and she pushes through, roughly untangling the strands. Five feels tiny pinpricks of pain on his scalp. He tries hard to keep his breathing under control.

The Handler huffs out a quiet, pleased laugh. “The most competent assassin in the space-time continuum…” Her voice is facetious, mocking. “Look at you now.” 

Five bristles, the corners of his lips curling down into an affronted frown. “You know I could snap your neck at any moment.” His voice is thankfully, blissfully level. 

The Handler just smiles. “And what does it say that you haven't, hmm?” She runs a line down Five’s scalp, then, with sharp fingernails. She starts parting his hair on the opposite side he usually does, flipping it to his left. It feels _wrong_ , bad.

“I could kill you if I wanted to.” He states plainly. His chest is starting to hurt, and he doesn't know how to make it stop.

“Mm, indeed.”

Once she’s done styling his hair, her hand drifts down to his face. A sharp, bright red fingernail runs across his cheek. The Handler’s eyes flicker back and forth in thought, her smile fading just the tiniest bit. Five focuses on her thick, black lashes, subtly twitching with every movement. Through his panicked haze, all he can think is that they must be weighing her eyes down, somehow.

“Y’know, that grenade really did a number on my beautiful face. Got a nasty little scar out of it.” Her smile is piercing, and she tilts her head the slightest bit. “Why don’t I give you something to match?” 

Five tenses then, alert, ready to jump at the slightest hint of quick action. A spark of joy flicks through his panicked mind momentarily- maybe now he'd have a _reason_ to react badly. A tangible excuse to jump away. Anything, really.

But the Handler moves slowly. She pulls back and runs her thumb across her lips without a care in the world. Then, she reaches forward and _drags_ it along Five’s right jaw, excruciatingly slow, smearing lipstick onto his face. He doesn’t have a mirror, but he can imagine the pink tone blends in with all the dried blood pretty well. The Handler’s sharp nails lightly scratch along Five’s jawline, and he sucks a silent, shaky breath in through his teeth. He never thought he’d miss his beard so much.

Would this be happening, if he looked like himself again? 

After all, this tiny, scrawny, _pathetic_ body seemed to do nothing but encourage others to look down on him. Five is perfectly capable of defending himself, perfectly capable of being a leader, but apparently as soon as you come back with some baby fat on your cheeks, everyone wants to patronize you all of a sudden. It’s so _hard_ to be intimidating, so hard to make people take him seriously without holding a goddamn knife to their throat.

Would she have thought twice about this, if he looked older? His stomach twists up into tiny little knots. He thinks he knows deep down, the answer is probably no.

Five sighs through his nose, sharp. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and crackled, like he hasn’t spoken in hours. “You do realize this isn’t in any way.. _funny_ or clever.”

The Handler pauses and raises her eyebrows in amusement, looking him in the eye. “Au contraire! I think it’s absolutely _hilarious_. Certainly satisfying, at least.”

Her hand shifts up, coming to rest at Five’s left temple. She gently pushes, but his head remains stationary, locked in place. The Handler clicks her tongue, leaning in another inch or so. She raises her eyebrows expectantly, mouth curled into a tiny, disapproving frown. Five stares into her dark eyes for a moment, clenching his jaw against the pounding of his heart. The edges of his vision are starting to tint dark, and he's certain that can't be good at all.

Finally, Five sighs through his nose, silent, and lets his head become putty. When the Handler pushes at his temple again, her lips quirk into a satisfied smile as his head obediently tilts down to one side, exposing his vulnerable neck.

This is up there with some of the worst feelings Five has ever experienced. Every cell in his body is _screaming_ to jump, to run away and never look back. It feels wrong, wrong, _wrong,_ leaving his most vital artery just inches away from her teeth, unprotected. But they’re not in the goddamn pre-Paleolithic Age; she’s not going to just rip his throat out with her teeth. So he stays still. Diligently, persistently still. 

“Gosh, you really _would_ do anything for that horrible family of yours.” She sounds almost impressed. It’s not amusing in the slightest. 

He’s lived 40 years in an apocalyptic wasteland. He’s suffered through dehydration, starvation, and rattling sickness. He’s been on the brink of death more times than he can count. For fuck’s sake, he’s gotten four new scars in the past _two weeks alone_.

So why is _this_ situation the one? Why is his body so intent on convincing him he’s not gonna make it out of this alive? She’s not even _doing_ anything, she’s not even hurting him.

So why does it feel like he’s fucking _dying_? Must be the goddamn- puberty, or something. Something along those lines. He feels like he can’t get enough air.

She leans in close, then. So close he can feel the strands of her hair tickling at the edge of his jawline. So close he can feel her even breath ghosting over his skin. Her head slots into the space at his neck that she created, her lips hovering a mere inch away from his carotid artery. She’s so close, but carefully apart. Not close enough to touch. 

She huffs, and the puff of air on his skin makes him break out in goosebumps. Or maybe they were already there.

“Y’know, I bet I could keep you like this for hours.”

A jolt of terror runs up Five’s spine at those words, and it takes everything in him to keep a neutral expression plastered on his face. His mind races with arguments and counters, a snappy retort forming like lightning on the tip of his tongue-

“Oh, don’t you worry.” She says first, pulling back a few inches so she can see the look on his face. “I have far more important things to attend to, now that I’m the Commission’s leading lady.” She gives him an exaggerated wink. “Thanks for that, by the way!”

Five’s overworked arms are having trouble staying up without shaking. There’s no possible way 60 seconds haven’t passed. Her self-imposed time limit _has_ to be up. But he can’t be sure. He doesn’t want to risk being wrong. But he _should_ be sure. He’s usually so on top of this kind of thing. What the hell happened? 

She leans in again, breath ghosting over his neck.

He should have taken her fucking suggestion. He should have _counted_ from the start. He _knew_ she would drag this out longer if she could get away with it. He _knew_ that's the type of person she is. He should have counted. Why the _fuck_ didn’t he start counting? Why didn’t he-

“Now wait just a moment, what do we have here?” 

The Handler’s sickly sweet voice snaps Five out of his own frantic thoughts, and he glances up at her out of the corner of his eye. She’s looking down at his neck, contemplative and delighted.

“Aww, did somebody get a boo-boo?” She runs three fingers over a place on Five’s neck. It takes him a second too long to register what she’s talking about.

Right. The spot Pogo scratched him.

The Handler clicks her tongue like a doting mother, and it makes Five want to retch.

“Don’t worry, I’ll kiss it better.” Her voice is low, wolfish.

She leans down then, and the moment her lips meet the sensitive skin on his neck, Five shuts his eyes tight against a fresh wave of dizziness. The Handler’s lips are chapped and uncomfortable against his skin, and she kisses him slowly, sloppily. Five’s stomach lurches with thousands of nauseating butterflies. He feels awfully lightheaded, and he’s distantly aware he’s stopped breathing. 

She plants another agonizing kiss to his neck, and Five’s eyes flutter open. Maybe staring at the faded decor on the wall ahead of him will make this moment kill him a little slower. He’s pretty sure he read something about the senses being heightened when they’re isolated. Or something like that. _Fuck_.

He feels her teeth graze over his pulse point, and Five forces himself to inhale slowly through his nose. It doesn’t help at all. He feels like he’s slowly bleeding out. It doesn’t help. Is he already dead? Is this Hell? It sucks. This fucking _sucks_. He wouldn’t be surprised if his lips are turning blue. 

But he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. None of this fucking _matters._ He’s not looking for happy. As long as this ends with his siblings getting out of the timeline, as long as this ends with no more apocalypse, it’s all worth it. It’ll all be worth it. _He’s not looking for happy._

She drags her tongue across his neck, then, and Five wishes he could vomit up his own intestines. His entire body is trembling now, but he just doesn’t _care_ anymore.

As long as his family gets to die old and loved, that’s all that matters. He has to keep them safe, he _has_ to. He’s the only one who can. He didn’t slave away at this for an _entire fucking lifetime_ only to falter at the last second. He would do it over and over again, he would relive these awful, _miserable_ two weeks a thousand times over if he had to, because he’s not a _quitter_. Because _fuck you._

A sharp, pinching jolt of _pain_ radiates from Five’s neck.

Like an electric shock, or the piercing needle of a tattoo artist.

A gasp slips through Five’s lips then, unbidden; a sharp inhalation of air, whistling through his teeth. It’s just _one_ gasp, one lapse of control, but it sounds so small, so pathetic, 

so _weak._

Shit.

He _feels_ her lips curling into a sickening smile at the sound, _feels_ her teeth grazing against the spot she just nipped. She hums contentedly against his skin. She won. 

She won, and stars are dancing at the edges of Five’s vision. He senses more than sees when she finally pulls away from his neck. He can feel a chill breeze ghosting over the spot she just bit. He doesn’t even have the energy to be angry, and he knows that should alarm him.

She’s stepped back now, and she’s saying something. Her lips are moving, but Five’s ears are filled with static. His head is cotton, and he’s frozen in place. His pounding heart simply isn’t his own anymore. Neither are his limbs, or his breath, or his bones. Time slips through his grasp like seeping blood. Like freezing water.

Her words are a droning mess of fake noise, and he barely notices when she tilts his head back to an upright position. He barely notices when she grabs the hands held above his head- _his_ hands, right, his own hands. He barely notices when she takes them and slowly guides them back to his side. She steps back again, and Five blinks, numbly bringing a hand up to press against the side of his neck.

He feels light-headed. Alarmingly so. Is he about to faint? Wouldn’t be the first time, surely. This sensation feels a little different though, but he knows he’s felt it before. Probably several times, actually. Probably a lot. It’s hard to remember. Maybe it was when he killed an innocent person for the first time? Louise Goldenaro. She was thirty-five years old, an elementary school teacher. Maybe it was back in the apocalypse, the moment he opened Vanya’s autobiography and read the first paragraph that mentioned Ben’s death? Maybe it was a lot of times. His memory is usually sharp as nails, but those moments are always hazy. He doesn’t want to think about them anymore. 

The Handler gestures with her hand, then, and she’s still talking. How is she still talking? She never knows when to shut up. 

How long has it been?

Five rubs the spot on his neck that she bit absentmindedly. It was going to leave a bruise, surely. It would be on display, for all his nosey siblings to stare at, to gawk over, to mock. A mark, a brand, a reminder. He’s not hers, not at all, but he _is_ for the next two-to-fourteen days, at least. However long it takes to fade away. A wave of nausea rolls through him at the realization, but what else is new?

Five thinks he’s never hated a person this much before.

“...Five? Five.”

Suddenly, the Handler is snapping her fingers right in front of Five’s face. He jerks back, and the sounds of the world crash back down around him.

“Not paying attention during an important business transaction?” Her lips are a natural sort of pink now, not so saturated. “Tsk, tsk. How unprofessional.” She teases.

And just like that, it’s as if Five is forcefully yanked back into his own body. He can feel the weight of his back leaning against cold, jagged bricks. Can feel the way his hammering heartbeat pounds in his ears.

The Handler takes another step back, and Five blinks. After a pause, he pushes off the wall to stand on his own, and for a brief moment he’s afraid his shaking legs might buckle. They hold strong, though, and Five takes a long, shuddering breath. One hand is still pressed firmly to his neck, the other hanging loosely at his side. He can _feel_ the way the constant adrenaline from the last hour, last day, last week, last year, last- 

He can feel how it’s all been wearing down at his overworked body. Five’s scrawny limbs are wracked with subtle tremors, but it’s only from exhaustion. He just fought nearly a dozen people after all, and his new body’s not used to such exertion. Of course it would be shaking. It’s completely logical.

Still, he hates how his hands tremble like he’s had four too many cups of coffee. 

The Handler’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a hot knife through butter. “Yknow, the first step to success in the workplace is learning how to be an active listener.” She crosses her arms and waits, tilting her head.

He couldn’t speak if he wanted to. He stares back, exhausted. All the fight in him has been drained, bled, like a gutted pig. It’s not fair.

For a few moments, Five watches as she drinks in the sight of him. She’s probably never seen him looking quite this disheveled, and dark shame flushes through Five’s cheeks at the revelation. Her lips slowly curl into a wide, vicious smile. Satisfaction colors her every movement, and her eyes sparkle with a sadistic sort of glee. The moment stretches on, and Five can’t work up the mental energy to think of a quip of his own.

Finally, the Handler claps her hands together, her voice switching over to that peppy business tone of hers. “Well, I think I’ve dawdled long enough!”

Five _hates_ how his posture slackens the second those words leave her mouth. _Hates_ how relief is written all over his face.

“Here, per our agreement-”

She twists in place and leans down, picking up the briefcase sitting on the ground behind her. _What the hell?_ When did she set it down? Five doesn’t have time to agonize over his own inattentiveness for long, however, because soon she’s holding it out in front of her.

The briefcase dangles between them, a carrot on a stick. Five’s breath catches in his throat. _Finally._ He forces himself to stay calm, to stay alert, to not be too hasty. When he reaches for the handle, his fingers briefly brush against hers. It sends yet another wave of nausea curling up from his stomach into the back of his throat. He can’t look at her, he can’t look at the ground, he’s staring at nothing. Once his fingers curl around the handle, he _wrenches_ it back in one swift tug. She smoothly lets go, of course. She’s all class, all control, all sleek nothingness. 

“This will get you and your siblings back to 2019.” She says, casual, like the last few minutes never even happened.

Five blinks once, twice, three times. He can feel the briefcase’s weight pulling down at his palm, heavy and grounding and _real_. It was over. 

It was finally fucking over.

“You have.. 90 minutes.”

**Author's Note:**

> hooo, this was exhausting to write. I have a lot of feelings about the handler’s particular brand of power plays. i guess i just think she could get very fucked up if the show’s tone was a tad darker. I know a lot of ppl soften her creepiness by saying “what if they just had a fling when he was older, hence all her flirting”, but imo the handler coming on to old!five would be just as creepy and wrong.
> 
> it’s all about the power dynamics. she’s his boss- he’s always the one tiptoeing around her, finding ways to outsmart her. It’s a tricky thing, because at first glance you think they’re more equals or rivals, but I believe that interpretation is superficial and stems from five’s self-assured personality.
> 
> also, i don’t think either of them are attracted to each other in the slightest. for the handler her creepiness is a tool, a way to assert dominance, same way she does with the swedes. and five can’t pull away or comment on it or else he’d be admitting that he’s bothered by it- thus, acknowledging himself as prey in their dynamic. this puts the handler in a win-win situation until, yknow, she dies lol
> 
> this is all just my interpretation of course! im sure the writers didnt intend their dynamic to come off quite so insidious
> 
> edit: if you interpret five + the handler as having had a relationship in the past, please don't bring it up in the comments of this fic ^^" the idea just personally makes me uncomfortable. thanks!


End file.
